Every time I go to the nail salon and am greeted by a beautiful young Asian girl who barely speaks English I think – you could totally fuck your way out of this shit hole. Men are obsessed with Asian girls – and I totally get why – they have everything I want – straight hair, small boobs, narrow hips. Done. Finito. Stick a fork in it. And speaking of forks – they also have the ability to eat rice without gaining weight which quite frankly outweighs all the other stuff – except maybe the hair – but you’d have to be Jewish to understand that obsession. I’m going to Florida tomorrow and there isn’t enough anti humidity hair spray in all of the land to make it possible for me to leave the house without looking like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl when she was pushing that steam table around the office party.
Yesterday however, my nail girl (so bougie) said something to me that I wish applied to all areas of life. “Five more minute, five more dollar.” She was referring to my feet and telling me that if I wanted five more minutes of foot massaging it would cost me five more dollars. Sign me the fuck up. And while we’re at it – what else can I get five more minutes of for the low low low price of five dollars? Wouldn’t it be great if everything you wanted five more minutes of cost just five dollars? Here are a few things I’d like five more minutes with:
1. The “House of Cards” finale.
2. The Oral Sex I had from that model in 1996.
3. The conversation I had with John Hamm at a party three years ago.
4. My dog Zoey.
5. Every hideous answering machine message I left for someone while drunk so I could dial back in and erase it.
What would life be like if we actually had to pay for our time here? Well first of all – I’d be dead – because I spent all of my life money on shoes. But it does make you think. If we had to pay for our time here would we appreciate it more? There are 1440 minutes in every day – so If everyone had to pay one dollar for every minute of every day – I think that day would become that much more important. So, I’m going to live today like it cost me $1,440.00. I’m going to start at the mall. I saw some shoes I want. And yes, I had to look up how many minutes are in a day. Fuck you.
“I want to be you when I grow up.” Boom. There it was. One innocent little sentence made up of nine innocent little words that together suddenly made the most hideous insult I’ve ever heard. Twenty years ago this was a compliment. Ten years ago it was cute. Now it’s “I’ll slap you if you say that again” horrific and instantly says to the fifty three year old person you’re talking to – “wow you’re old as shit.” At least that’s what my ears took in, swirled around in my crazy center and spit back out as a rude insult.
There are a few “compliments” that as you get older no longer feel so complimentary. This is one of them. Add to that “Wow you don’t look your age at all” and you can send me back to my bed under the covers with a bunch of medical tape strapped to the back of my neck pulling it together like a skin ponytail and returning it to it’s thirty year old status. I hate my neck. But that’s another story.
I always hoped that one day I’d grow up to be some kind of role model or powerful influence to young women but now I’m rethinking this because every time I open my mouth around someone more youthful than me – which is the entire los angeles area – I get slapped with this anti-acclamation. Perhaps you young people come up with something new to say to someone who says something that inspires you or perhaps you could just write them a check. And while you’re at it – if you could learn to shut your mouth a teensy bit when I say – I’m 53 – I’d appreciate it. I wouldn’t want to break a hip picking your jaw up off the floor.
When it comes to sex, I consider myself to be a fairly well adjusted person and by fairly I mean – I don’t run screaming from the room if a man takes his pants off. (At least not every time.) I believe this is due to one simple thing. I never saw my parents naked. This however, all changed last night when I saw someone else’s parents naked on what can only very loosely be called a television show aptly named, “Buying Naked.” At first I thought I was watching Saturday Night Live because there is no way anyone would have made this into a television show. And then I remembered I live in America where everything is a reality show and you can become famous for killing ducks or farming with Amish people or being a chubby little beauty queen with a catchphrase and a mother who looks like a thumb.
I watched Buying Naked for quite a few minutes. Granted, I was high. Every time the naked people appeared on camera there would be a vase or lamp placed perfectly in front of their naughty bits. Fine. I get it. It’s Benny Hill in a realtor show. Whatever. But what I couldn’t stop thinking about was the poor people who owned the house who probably never knew that old man ass cheeks would be touching their couch that day. I bet nobody told Betty & Bob TryingToSellMyHouse that someone else’s boobs would be brushing up against their lovely wall paper or that fingers that touched gonad flesh would be touching their light sockets. But most importantly I couldn’t help but think – I can’t believe I don’t have a television show and this elderly epidermis loving loon does. So, today I will be sitting in front of my computer – nude. I’m strapping a camera to Peaches back and I’m calling the show “Writing Naked.”